


The Pride of Bastet

by fakinbrilliance



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF Sheriff Stilinski, Eventual Mature Rating, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pack Feels, Possessive Behavior, Slow Build, Stiles has a plan, Werecats, derek is broody, non-con kissing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-05
Updated: 2013-08-31
Packaged: 2017-11-23 19:50:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/625900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fakinbrilliance/pseuds/fakinbrilliance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is marked by the supernatural, Derek is possessive, and the whole pack is a bundle of feels as they try to work their way through it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Brilliant Plan

**Author's Note:**

> Not sure just yet how many chapters this is going to be. I tend to write A LOT more than I plan, so it may end up longish. Will try to update weekly. I have quite a bit more of this written, but it is a WIP, so tags and rating ar subject to change. If you think I should add any tags/warnings, let me know in the comments. Feedback is love!
> 
> Thanks to Kim and Candy for their invaluable suggestions, feedback and encouragement! All mistakes are mine (and if you catch any typos, let me know!). 
> 
> All characters belong to MTV and their creators.

“AaaaAAAAhaaaah,” Stiles yelled, frantically windmilling his arms in an effort to remain upright as he pelted down the increasingly steep hillside. 

He dodged left and barely managed to avoid a homicidal pine tree as it loomed up at him out of the winter-dark night, then almost lost his head to a low hanging branch. Fortunately, his toe snagged on an exposed root, and he avoided a face full of splinters and a potentially broken neck by the simple expedient of face-planting in the mud instead. 

“Nrrggg,” he groaned, all the wind knocked out of him, and gasped hard, trying to force air back into his lungs. He had to spit out a mouthful of mud first. _Gross._ Sometimes, Stiles thought, it would be nice to remember to shut his mouth _before_ disgusting things wandered into it. With a huge amount of effort, he heaved himself up onto his elbows and scrubbed the damp leaves and forest muck out of his eyes with one shaky hand. He shot a hunted glance over his shoulder. 

“Shit shit shit shit _shit,_ ” he cursed as he caught sight of a lightning quick movement about fifty yards behind him. He pushed himself back onto his feet and into a lurching run. 

Everything was _fine._

This was all part of the plan. _His_ plan. And it was definitely working. Maybe a bit too well, all things considered. But the important thing to keep in mind, he told himself firmly, was that the plan was _totally_ working. 

Clearly, Stiles was a _genius._

About a month ago, some big bad monster had taken up residence in the woods outside Beacon Hills and started snacking on hikers and stray tourists. Well, Stiles assumed it was snacking. Scott said the attack sites were rank with blood and fear, and no bodies had been found so far, which, in Stiles unfortunately-not-so-limited experience of scary, hairy things meant that there was some serious supernatural snacking going on. 

The attacks looked (and smelled, if the pack could be believed) nothing at all like werewolf work, and Derek had insisted that everyone wait until they figured out what kind of baddie they were dealing with before running headlong into the forest as usual. 

And Stiles got that. Really, he did. On a normal day, he would have applauded (really applauded, loudly, in front of everyone, with invitations for Derek to take a bow and make a memorial speech) the fact that one of the pack was using their _actual brain_ for once instead of relying on nothing but sinew and instinct. 

Unfortunately, according to Allison, her family had sent a team of four highly trained men into the woods to investigate, and none of them had come back. The pack’s uneasy truce with the Argents was still less than a year old, and the whole scary armed-to-the-teeth lot of them were getting twitchier by the day. Then Chris Argent had started talking about banning Scott from the house again, and Scott had turned his damnably effective kicked-puppy eyes on Stiles, and, well, it was definitely a problem that needed to be solved. _Fast._

Whatever this monster was, Stiles was sure it was huge and mean and horrible. Life, in his experience, didn’t just deal out lemons. It dealt out lemon-shaped nuclear bombs. With fangs. And claws. And venom. Plus, there was the evidence of the four missing Argent henchmen. Stiles didn’t have the highest opinion of the Argent’s over-muscled black-clad hangers on, but anything that could take down four of them without leaving a trace was definitely a monster to be reckoned with. 

Everything might have been easier if they could have just tracked it, but apparently, in addition to being a terrifying human-eating monster, the thing was also some kind of super-ninja when it came to stealth. 

The attack sites were plain enough, decorated with broken tree limbs, fresh gouges in the dirt and a few dried smears of blood on bark – less blood, actually, than Stiles would have expected for an all-you-can-eat human buffet, but maybe the thing dragged its prey elsewhere before doing the messy bits of snacking. Stiles really, _really_ didn’t want to know. 

The weird part – well, ok, no – the _weirder_ part was that there was no trace of the thing outside a ten foot perimeter of the attacks. The wolves could definitely smell the creature; a scent both Jackson and Scott had taken one whiff of, wrinkled their noses and described, simply, as _cold;_ but apparently they couldn’t track it. The trail didn’t fade off or disappear. It was like it had never been there in the first place; like the thing sprang into existence, neutralized its prey, and vanished back into the ether. Stiles really hoped that they weren’t dealing with something that had the ability to teleport. His world was insane enough with werewolves and kanima and alpha packs in it. He didn’t need the dodgier bits of Star Trek science to become reality, too.

Really, they just needed to know what they were dealing with so Stiles could research and Derek could strategize and then the whole pack could go and take it down. 

So Stiles had come up with a plan – a _brilliant_ plan – to lure the thing out of hiding and into the open so they could finally get a good look at it. If they were lucky, they might even be able to trap it, though that wasn't a necessity. Just seeing it and escaping would be enough.

Allison, Scott and Lydia were in from the start, and after a little quiet persuasion on Allison’s part, Jackson, Danny and Isaac agreed to help, too. 

With Allison in the mix, Stiles didn’t dare approach Erica or Boyd. They apparently still had a bit of a grudge against her for Boromiring Boyd in the forest that one time. Some people really couldn’t let the past go. Anyways, these days, when they weren’t making love-struck eyes at each other, they were busy following Derek around like little ducklings. If Stiles had approached them, Derek would have found out for sure, and that was the last thing he wanted.

And, ok, in retrospect, not telling Derek what they were up to might have been a mistake, but Stiles knew he would have gone over all Alpha-stubborn, and if Derek said no, then Isaac and Jackson were out and Stiles needed them for his brilliant plan to work. 

Besides, Derek had been acting all weird, recently, avoiding Stiles for days on end, then inexplicably snapping at him and dragging him around by the scruff of the neck. Which, ok, actually sounded pretty much like business as usual where Derek was concerned; but it was different in a way that Stiles had trouble defining. Derek had always had a bit of a hair trigger when it came to his temper, but Stiles used to at least have a vague idea of what was going to set him off. These days, it could be something as innocuous as Stiles slurping cup noodle too loudly – which was actually _polite_ in most cultures – or borrowing Scott's shirt after practice – which he'd totally had permission to do, he hadn't stolen it or anything. Anyways, it was Scott's shirt, not Derek’s, so what the hell? And the avoidance thing was completely new. 

Stiles chalked it up to Derek being a moody bastard. 

Incomprehensible scruff snatching and sulks should not be rewarded with inclusion in brilliant plans. And Derek would have to be grateful if they could bring him back some answers about what this damned thing was, right? Derek had to want to end this threat as much as the rest of the pack did.

And anyways, the plan was _totally working,_ Stiles told himself again, dodging yet another murderous tree as it attempted to clobber him by standing perfectly still. The plan was totally working because the trap had been set, and Stiles – 

Well, Stiles was the bait. 

The bait for the big, bad, scary, hairy monster. 

And look! Here it came.

Which would have been perfect, except that wasn’t an _it_ following him. That was definitely a _they,_ and why had it never occurred to any of them that there might be more than one?

The leaves rustled as several figures moved quietly from branch to branch. 

“No wonder the wolves can’t track these things on the ground,” Stiles panted under his breath, “They aren’t on the ground. They’re in the goddamn _trees.”_

In the darkness, their shapes were indistinct, barely more than moon-brushed shadows against the velvety black night – but there was something about the way that they moved, a calculated grace like a hunter’s steady prowl, that made a tiny voice in Stiles head scream run away, run away, _run away._

He sped as fast as his shaky legs would carry him in what he desperately hoped was the right direction. He’d fallen a few times already, and he hadn’t exactly remembered the hillside turning into a near vertical deathtrap when he’d walked up it earlier in the day, but then, things were bound to look a bit different after midnight when chased by insane monsters than they did at three on a calm afternoon. 

And, oh crap, the insane monsters were gaining on him. He was never going to make it to the pack, never going to spring the trap even if he was headed in the right direction. 

Stiles craned his neck to look over his shoulder again, and caught sight of a lean silhouette sailing across the waning moon directly above him. 

And that was when the ground disappeared completely from under his feet.

 _Well, Shit,_ Stiles thought with a resigned sigh, and proceeded to fall to his inevitable doom.

☆★☆

Stiles’ inevitable doom, as it turned out, was a three foot belly flop onto soft ground that lead to a banged elbow, a scrapped chin, and yet another mouthful of horrendously squishy muck.

 _Riverbank,_ Stiles thought as he spat, then spared a moment to worry that he could apparently discern his general location by _tasting the ground._ Maybe it was the first budding sign of a hitherto dormant superpower. Or maybe, just maybe, he really needed to learn how to close his mouth. 

And, _ow,_ that was mud was in his eyes again, too. He squinted, trying to make out his surroundings, but as far as he could tell, the world had turned into a child’s finger painting – all insubstantial shapes and meaningless smudges. He could smell the river, though, the earthy tang of moss and damp; hear the silken gurgle of water flowing over stone. The fact that his epic fall had sunk him six inches deep into the soft ground instead of breaking a few of his bones was also a good sign there was water nearby. At least he knew one thing for certain – if he’d made it to the river, then he was a good mile east of the pack’s carefully laid trap.

“Super,” Stiles said around the grit still in his mouth. “Awesome. Fan _fucking_ tastic.” Fortunately, by this point, he was pretty used to life’s lemon-shaped bombs. Also he was a genius, and therefore, always prepared. Or was that the Boy Scouts? Whatever. He reached into his pocket for Plan B. 

The thin, cylindrical piece of steel was in his hand by the time several soft _thwumps_ nearby announced the arrival of his pursuers. Unfortunately, his hand was still in his pocket. For Plan B to work, it needed to be next to his face. 

“Not panicking, not panicking, _not panicking!_ Evil suction-y mud is _not_ going to thwart Plan B,” Stiles told himself firmly in a very panicky whisper. Whispering was probably useless anyways, as every freaking monster he’d ever run into had stupidly sensitive senses and could hear a mouse fart from three states over. Still, he couldn’t stop babbling in normal circumstances, and trying to suppress his monologues while under duress was like trying to dam up the Nile with a box of toothpicks. At least if he whispered, he could pretend the monsters didn’t hear. 

“Oh god, oh god, oh god,” Stiles moaned, fighting against the viscous mud as the unhurried footsteps – _of a stalking predator,_ his mind supplied helpfully – padded towards him. 

And, yeah, ok, he was totally panicking. The pack was at least a mile away and waiting for Stiles, but Stiles was going to be eaten here and now if he didn’t do something. After all the monsters and the terror and the goddamned werewolves he’d survived, he’d be damned if he was going to be defeated by _mud._ With a vicious tug and a snarl that would have made Scott proud, Stiles extracted his hand and Plan B from the sludge. 

“Yes!” he crowed, triumphant.

The quiet footsteps paused in their approach. Stiles didn’t know if it was surprise or curiosity or an aversion to his amazing voice. It didn’t matter. It just meant that he had time to fill up his lungs, slip the muddy whistle between his lips, and blow out long and hard.

The whistle didn’t make a sound.

Crap, why couldn’t he hear anything? Was there too much mud in it? Had he broken the whistle when he fell in the woods? Was he blowing on the wrong end? Stiles felt the bubble of panic expanding in his chest, pressing against his lungs and heart, making it hard for him to breathe. 

Then, because Stiles was a genius, he remembered that he wasn’t supposed to hear anything. It was a dog whistle, and unlike most of the friends he’d made recently, he wasn’t a dog. 

The shadowy shape in front of Stiles was suddenly stock-still and making a truly terrifying, animalistic sound – something halfway between a growl and a hiss that was echoed by the other creatures outside Stiles’ limited line of sight. That probably meant they’d heard something even if he hadn’t. Which, with a little luck, meant the pack should be bounding this way at full speed. 

And, ok, the whole angry hissing thing probably didn’t bode well for Stiles’ immediate bodily safety, but at least he was one step closer to proving his All Monsters Have Super Senses theory. Yay. Science. 

The growling hisses died off, and suddenly the unnatural quiet of the woods sounded a hell of a lot more like imminent death than Stiles was comfortable with.

“Hi,” Stiles said, because someone needed to break the tension and apparently these monsters had all the social graces of disgruntled porcupines. He craned his neck around as far as he could in either direction and counted seven shadowy silhouettes moving towards him. “Those were some lovely noises you were making.” With the back of his freed hand, he scrubbed at his eyes, trying to clear them. He really wanted to see what kind of horrible creepy crawlies he was dealing with here. God, he hoped they didn’t have tentacles. He _hated_ tentacles. “Do you practice at home, or does that level of intimidation come naturally to you?” He continued, determined, at least, to keep up his end of this conversation. 

Thankfully, his tear ducts were still working despite all the shit he’d put them through today, and as the grit cleared from his eyes, the blurry shapes around him resolved into distinct figures.

Distinctly _hot_ figures.

Stiles felt his mouth fall open again, chin digging deep into the slimy riverbank, but he couldn’t even get on his own case about it this time because, seriously, those had to be the hottest monsters ever. They were all long legs and supple curves packaged in skin tight body suits that reflected the weak moonlight and did nothing at all to hide the outrageous sway of their hips. Their delicately pointed ears and luminescent green eyes lent them a distinctly feline cast that was only reinforced by the lazy, rolling grace of their movements. And, _oh sweet baby Jesus,_ they had _tails._ Actual, honest-to-god tails, all long and undulating and… _Jesus Christ._

Stiles took a moment to be quietly horrified at his brain for betraying him like this. Monsters? Really? Yes, he was a healthy hormone-riddled seventeen year old male, and yes, sometimes even shapely kitchen utensils could inspire lustful thoughts, but he never thought he’d stoop to the level of _monsters._

His traitorous brain took this shining opportunity to regurgitate memories of the entire pack in various stages of undress – god, even _Scott,_ ugh – before finally settling on Derek, shirtless, in Stiles’ own bedroom, holding up one of Stiles’ too-small polos while his abs did things that surely defied both the laws of physics and man. 

“Oh my god, subconscious,” Stiles groused, “If I survive this, you and I are going to have a very long, very stern talk about timing and inappropriateness.” 

A guttural noise that sounded far too much like a laugh snapped Stiles’ attention back to the disturbingly sensuous creatures surrounding him. They were still moving silently closer, eyes intent and curved claws glinting menacingly in the moonlight.

Wait.

Stiles blinked.

_Claws?_

_“Shit,”_ he groaned, flailing ineffectually against the vise-like mud. “This is so unfair. You can’t be hot and athletic _and_ have claws. That’s cheating. You supernatural types are _always cheating.”_

The monsters seemed completely unfazed by the accusation, stalking towards him with deathly intent, clawed fingers flexing, and Stiles should really be getting up and running right about now. He flailed some more which did nothing at all for his escape attempt except possibly drive him a few inches deeper into the muck. 

Great. 

He’d managed to find the one pit of quicksand – quickmud? – in all of Beacon Hills and tripped into it on the only night in the last year and a half that he wasn’t surrounded by an overprotective pack of werewolves. 

How the hell was this his life? 

“WAIT!” Stiles lobbed the word into the tense silence, like a ball he was hoping a dog would chase. “I can explain!” He had absolutely no idea who these creatures were or what he intended to explain (maybe why he had been prowling the forest at midnight-thirty wearing running shoes and a Pringles T-shirt, though ‘I wanted to look tasty!’ was probably not his best line of defense) but in his experience, preemptive yelps were highly effective as distractions.

Unfortunately, it appeared that whatever these things were, they were not terribly distractible. As one, the whole group of them surged forward, and suddenly there were strong hands everywhere, on the nape of Stiles’ neck, his hips, his thighs, his back and sides and – oh, god, that _tickled._

“No, no, no, bad touch!” he protested, trying to bat the offending hands away. It wasn’t terribly effective, stuck as he was belly down in the mud. His arms would only bend backwards so far and after his recent, exhausting sprint, there was no real strength behind his flails. Stiles felt a sudden flash of envy for Scott’s ability to grow elongated claws and extra muscles on a whim. The process had always kind of grossed him out in the past, but Stiles could definitely see some advantages at this point. Strictly human anatomy could be really inconvenient. 

Still, Stiles wasn’t in any particular hurry to lose bits or pieces of his inconvenient anatomy. “Lemmie go! Didn’t you guys go to monster preschool? Hands to yourself!”

Suddenly, several of those hands were wriggling under Stiles, and before he realized what was happening, the world lurched and gave a sickening twist. He landed on his back with a soft _splat._

“Jesus,” he protested as more mud squelched into some rather uncomfortable places. He started flailing a hell of a lot more violently now that he was stuck on his back like a pill bug. “You can’t just _flip me._ I’m not a _hamburger,_ I – wait, forget I said that. I did not just compare myself to food. I’m not food! I swear I am actively trying not to taste good. I’ve been marinating in _mud._ And I am thinking such bitter thoughts right now. I’ll taste like bile, like vomit, like toe jam… I’m toe jam! Plus, I am on a shitload of meds, and they will totally mess you up. You do not want that crap in your syst—Aaaaaouf!” Stiles squawked that last bit as he was wrenched into the air and slammed bodily against a tree trunk. 

_“Ow,”_ he said, more on principle than because of any actual pain. With Derek around, he was used to getting slammed into things on a fairly regular basis and he’d learned early on how to shift pre-impact so the softer bits of him took most of the blow. He tried for an angry glare anyways. Throwing people into things was definitely not ok, no matter what Derek thought, and Stiles refused to reinforce bad behavior. 

Very bad behavior, in this case. Not only had he been thrown up against a tree, but now two of the monsters were holding tight to his wrists, pinning them back at a terribly unhelpful angle. Stiles tried to twist away, but despite their willowy slim arms, their grips were strong as steel.

On the plus side, at least they were claw-free grips. In fact, Stiles realized with a bit of a start, despite all the inappropriate groping, he didn’t seem to have a single scratch on him. Not that he was complaining or anything, but it did seem a bit odd. Those claws had not looked like the dull, child-safe variety.

He glanced at the hand of the creature nearest him and blinked. The claws were gone; just _gone,_ like they’d never been there in the first place. 

“What the hell?” Stiles wondered aloud. “Where’d the pointy parts go?”

Several of the creatures made that rough, almost-laughing sound again, and Stiles glared at them in indignation. It had been a perfectly reasonable question. 

One of the cat women took a step towards him and inhaled deeply. “This one runs with wolves,” she said in a rumbling voice reminiscent of a satisfied purr. 

Stiles tensed. How could she know that? Except, of course, she could probably smell the wolves on him. Super-hearing. Super-noses. Super everything. God. They were all _cheaters,_ the whole bloody supernatural lot of them. 

The she-cat was still moving towards him, and there was something like a smile twisting her lips. “Shall I see if I can convert him?” She stopped directly in front of Stiles, and he suddenly saw that what he’d assumed was a skin tight body suit was actually a smooth pelt of fur. She was a tabby, he realized, and had to suppress a hysterical laugh. And, holy god, did that mean she was _naked?_

Thankfully, his hormone soaked brain didn’t have long to contemplate that because she was suddenly right up in his space, face only inches from his own, and his panic instincts kicked back in with a vengeance.

“Personal bubble!” Stiles yelped, head thwacking back against solid bark as his shoulder blades tried to dig through the tree towards freedom. “Seriously, not that you’re unattractive or anything, but this? This is not ok,” he babbled wildly as her face crowded in even closer. It was an almost human face, aside from the delicately pointed ears and the fine sheen of mottled fur, and if it wasn’t for the predatory closeness, Stiles would probably have called her pretty. At least until she blinked up at him with large, slit-pupiled eyes, and suddenly all he could see was _cat._

“I mean,” Stiles squeaked, in a voice that sounded far too much like a panicked mouse for any sort of comfort, “I don’t even know your _species,_ let alone your name. Introductions are a must! And even then, I usually save this level of intimacy until at least the third –”

His flow of words was cut off abruptly as the cat-creature closed the remaining inch between them and pressed her lips to his. 

“Mmmmf!” Stiles tried to protest, but his mouth was already open (goddamn it), and she was able to slipped her tongue in with almost no resistance. Stiles’ train of thought, which had already been screeching along the tracks at a dangerously high speed, derailed completely.

By the time he blinked himself back to reality, the she-cat had pulled away, and was regarding him with a satisfied smirk.

“What the _hell,”_ Stiles demanded for the eight millionth time that night, blinking to get rid of a strange, sparking blackness at the edges of his vision.

The creature’s smirk slipped, replaced by drawn brows and a backward twitch of her ears.

“Hmm,” purred another gloriously endowed creature, stepping forward and forcing her Stiles-molesting companion to move back. Her fur was a bit darker, Stiles though, probably close to a charcoal gray, though it was hard to tell by moonlight. “This one has a strong will.” She cocked her head to one side and regarded Stiles with wickedly bright eyes. Her delicate pink tongue slid, spit slick, across her lower lip. 

Stiles tried not to shudder.

Without warning, this new she-cat menace darted forward. 

Stiles flinched, locking his jaw and pressing his lips into a firm line, but she only flattened her body against his and bumped her nose under Stiles’ jaw, nuzzling her way down his neck. Stiles sucked in a deep breath because, oh god, that _tickled,_ and suddenly he knew what Jackson and Scott had meant when they described the attack site’s scent as _cold._

It wasn’t what Stiles had expected – something stiff, unpleasant and unyielding like the startling chill of metal or the sharp, stinging bite of ice. Instead, Stiles’ head was marvelously full of deep, black lakes and moonlit nights, winter winds and the crisp crackle of freshly fallen snow. 

He smiled helplessly as that strange, sparkling darkness crept back across his vision, and barely registered the warm pressure of another pair of lips against his own.

Stiles shook his head like a dog shedding water and blinked as the riverbank came back into focus. 

Five pairs of yellow green eyes regarded him quizzically.

“Jesus,” he complained, testing the holds of the two creatures behind him that were still restraining his arms. They were pretty strong. “Did you ditch all your classes? You must have missed Sex Ed completely. No means no!” He insisted.

There was a frustrated exhale of breath from the group before him, and Stiles spared a worried moment to wonder how long, exactly, it took a werewolf to run a mile. He’d always thought of them as unbelievably fast, but an agonizing amount of time had already passed since he’d executed Plan B, and he hadn’t heard a single howl yet. 

A third, ebony furred creature moved towards him, and Stiles decided it was high time that he started fighting back.

“Oh no. Not again,” Stiles declared and kicked out violently with both feet, aiming for the creature’s narrow waist. Stiles didn’t have much experience trying to dissuade unwanted advances, but a hard kick to the gut had to be a mood killer, right? 

His feet connected with a satisfying _thump,_ and his would-be assailant stumbled backwards a few steps. 

“Hah,” Stiles grinned. “Never underestimate a Stilinski.” 

Unfortunately he only had half a heartbeat to enjoy his small victory before angry hisses rose all around him in hair-raising surround-sound. 

“Not good,” Stiles muttered, pulling ineffectually at his arms as his eyes darted from one angry feline face to the next. “Definitely not good. Seriously, where the hell is the pack?”

He had just started to contemplate the terrifying possibility that the pack might not be coming at all when the whole gang of enraged she-cats swept forward, and with single-minded determination, began stroking, petting, snuggling, and oh, god, _licking_ him. He very quickly lost the brain power to contemplate anything at all.

☆★☆

Stiles came back to himself abruptly as his ass hit ground.

He breathed in deep lungfulls of clean air and closed his eyes against the receding webs of silver specked blackness that laced the scene before him. His senses felt muffled, like he was under water, everything strangely distorted and two steps removed. He could vaguely feel his body, feel the pulsing throb of his bruised lips, the dull burn in his shoulders, stiff from being held so tightly back, but he couldn’t muster the energy to move.

When he finally opened his eyes, the cat women were still there, all seven of them standing in a loose half circle before him. They were facing away, backs stiff, and heads tilted skyward like they were trying to catch a scent on the breeze. 

“Wolves,” the tabby rasped, lips curled in a disdainful sneer as her ears flicked back in annoyance.

“From the west,” the gray agreed in a voice that bordered on a snarl.

“What should we do with him?” asked the tabby, gesturing in Stiles’ direction.

“He will slow us if resists,” one voice started, “And he will resist. He is not yet ours,” another finished. 

They were both delicate, pale-furred creatures that Stiles didn’t immediately recognize. Their hands and feet and the tips of their ears were edged in black, lending them the distinctive coloring of the Siamese. 

Stiles gave a start as he realized that those two, the smallest of the group by far, must have been responsible for the unbreakably strong grips that had restrained him. He stared at their petite frames, their slim, almost spindly arms, and sighed. He’d always known he fell solidly in the “brains” category when it came to the pack, but it was still humbling to realize he didn’t have the brawn to free himself from what looked like two twelve year old girls. 

Then again, twelve year old girls were pretty fierce. Maybe he shouldn’t feel so bad after all.

“He is a fine specimen,” The gray replied slowly, ears twitching anxiously as she tried to listen in all directions. “And he reeks of the wolves. He might be useful in future… _negotiations._ It seems a shame to leave him behind.”

The ebon-furred creature, the largest, and the leader judging by the respectful deference of her companions, slanted Stiles a narrow-eyed glare before coming to some sort of decision. “Mark him,” she ordered.

Stiles watched in paralyzed horror as his first molester, the tabby, turned towards him with one hand raised. She flexed her fingers, and the claws he’d glimpsed earlier reappeared, not in the surreal, bone stretching way of a werewolf, but in one smooth slide, like blades gliding from their sheaths. Locking eyes with Stiles, she brought her fingers to her mouth and ran her tongue over each claw in the most terrifyingly erotic move Stiles had ever seen. Then her hand flashed towards him faster than his eyes could track.

“Shit!” he cursed, and barely had time to flinch back before all five of those claws raked straight through his favorite jeans and sank deep into his thigh. 

For a moment, the white-hot pain was enough to render Stiles speechless. Then the burning rake of claws through flesh tore a horrible, choked scream from his throat. He could feel his muscle tearing; feel the sickly-sweet rip of skin and the slick, wet welling of blood as her claws scored his leg from hip to knee.

Stiles threw himself sideways, reaction miles too slow, and gritted his teeth against another, gut wrenching sob. 

He stared at his assailant in disbelief. She wasn’t even looking at him; had already turned to address one of her companions. The sudden pounding of blood in his ears blotted out her words.

Stiles looked down at his injured leg. 

_Red,_ he thought. 

Then, as some well trained part of his emergency systems kicked in, another word surfaced: _pressure._

Shaking hard, he pressed both palms across the wounds, unable to completely cover the long gashes. Pain flared as blood oozed through his fingers and pooled up under his hands. He had to swallow hard against the burn of acid in his throat to stop from vomiting. Leaning his head back against the rough bark of the tree, he bit back another moan and blinked away tears as he caught sight of a movement deep in the forest. 

With a furious growl, something huge and black and terrifying hurled itself across the shallow river in three long bounds and bowled straight into the startled group of felines. 

They scattered like leaves in a breeze as the dark shape chased them, snapping at their heels, raking blunt claws down the bark of the trees they fled into. The riverbank was a whirling mess of snarls and chaos, but Stiles’ small pain-soaked corner of it was oddly, eerily calm.

Confusion warred with the agony in Stiles’ mind. The pack should have been coming from behind him, from the west, not from across the river to the east. Had one of them circled around, or was this some new sort of menace to be faced? Stiles felt his breath catch at that though, then the dark shape spun to face him and Stiles glimpsed the flash of red in its eyes. 

“Derek,” Stiles sighed in relief, as the realization struck him. “Oh, thank god,” he moaned, and very manfully passed out.


	2. Marked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Strip,” Derek ordered.
> 
> Stiles gaped at him, head clearing momentarily in the face of utter insanity. “What?” he demanded when he finally found his voice. “Didn’t I just finish telling you how I was violently gang-cuddled by a group of terrifying monsters? I’m feeling a bit vulnerable, here, and cracking a joke like that is not exactly displaying a great level of sensitivity.”
> 
> “Your leg is _bleeding,_ ” Derek said through clenched teeth. “And your wounds smell wrong. _You_ smell wrong. I won’t be able to see anything through all that mud. Get your clothes off and get in the river.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a bit late! The last book of my favorite series came out on Tuesday, and I spent three solid days devouring it. 
> 
> This part is un-beta'd so apologies in advance for any mistakes.

“They _kissed_ me!” Stiles said in disbelief as he stared up at the dense foliage where the cat-women had disappeared. 

The rest of the pack had made it to the riverbank sometime during Stiles’ manly swoon, and he’d woken up to find the lot of them sniffing around the area in growing agitation. Well, everyone was sniffing around except for Scott and Derek, who were being completely useless. Scott was hovering over Stiles like a worried nursemaid, and Derek was hovering, too, but his scowl made him look a lot less like a nursemaid and a lot more like a homicidal stalker. 

Allison and Lydia weren’t really sniffing anything either, but they, at least, were hefting their crossbows and looking menacing, which more than made up for it.

“ _Stiles,_ ” Derek growled.

“Huh?” Stiles blinked and refocused on Derek’s face. 

Derek gave Stiles’ bloody leg a pointed glare. 

“Oh, right. And they threatened me and clawed me and probably would have kidnapped me if they’d had the chance. Those terrible, horrible creatures,” Stiles amended hastily. He felt exhausted and achy, his thoughts more than a little fuzzed around the edges. It was nice to know his mouth was still online, though.

Derek looked thoroughly unconvinced. A muscle in his jaw twitched. 

“What?” Stiles asked. “At least I was mentally prepared for the possibility of pain and torture. I was not, however, aware that there was even the slightest potential for sexual harassment by seven sexy she-cats. It took me a bit off guard.” 

And _that_ was totally the sound of Derek’s teeth grinding, the crazy bastard. 

Still, he had a point. Stiles glanced down at his slashed thigh and wondered vaguely why he wasn’t more concerned about the large, gaping wounds. He felt kind of drunk, which probably had something to do with the blood loss, but the gashes…they should hurt more. They _had_ hurt more. He could remember the searing agony of tearing flesh, the taste of bile on his tongue, and blood oozing thick and wet through his fingers. There was still blood mixing with the congealed mess of torn fabric and drying mud on his thigh, but the flow had already slowed to barely a trickle, and the blinding anguish had retreated to a dull, distant ache. 

It didn’t make any sense. Nothing about this insane night was making any sense.

“Strip,” Derek ordered, as though to prove the point. For some unfathomable reason, the alpha was shrugging out of his leather jacket and hanging it on a tree.

Stiles gaped at him, head clearing momentarily in the face of utter insanity. “What?” he demanded when he finally found his voice. “Didn’t I just finish telling you how I was violently gang-cuddled by a group of terrifying monsters? I’m feeling a bit vulnerable, here, and cracking a joke like that is not exactly displaying a great level of sensitivity.”

“Your leg is _bleeding,_ ” Derek said through clenched teeth. “And your wounds smell wrong. _You_ smell wrong. I won’t be able to see anything through all that mud. Get your clothes off and get in the river.” 

“The _river?_ ” Stiles sputtered, voice an octave too high. “What, are you nuts? I’m all for proper hygiene, but I have a perfectly good shower at home.” He couldn’t imagine a worse finish to this already shitty night than ending up sopping wet, skinny, pale and naked in front of a pack of incredibly fit werewolves. “And, hey, what do you mean I smell?” He glared, but Derek just glared back, unapologetic. 

Stiles shot a desperate look in his best friend’s direction. “Scott,” he pleaded, “Tell the wacko wolf he’s crazy.”

“Derek’s right,” Scott said, wrinkling his nose. “You smell awful. Cold, like those cat things.” 

Stiles stared at his best friend in betrayed horror.

“We’ll be able to take a closer look at your leg once you get some of the mud off it,” Isaac said from a little ways down the riverbank, sounding far too reasonable for someone who was clearly a member of Team Evil. 

“Yeah, and it’ll be easier to bandage without your gross jeans in the way,” Allison agreed, settling her crossbow on the seat of the quad she had ridden in on since the immediate danger seemed to have passed.

“No,” Stiles said, shaking his head vigorously. It was not a word he ever thought he’d use on the shining day that a hot girl asked him to take his pants off, but he said it again just to be absolutely clear. “No, we should not go sticking my leg in any bacteria-filled waters. That’s a terrible idea.”

“You’ve already soaked it in bacteria-filled mud,” Lydia pointed out. 

“Can’t get much worse,” Jackson agreed.

“But mud is like a poultice…” Stiles started to argue. 

Erica cut him off with a laugh. “Right,” She said as Boyd smirked at Stiles over her shoulder. “Because Beacon Hill’s polluted river sludge has such amazing restorative properties.”

“It might.” Stiles said, sticking his chin out. “You don’t know that it doesn’t. And, hey, what are you guys even doing here, anyways?” he wondered, a bit belatedly. “You weren’t part of the plan.”

“And whose idiot plan was it?” Derek asked, predictably grabbing onto the one word in Stiles’ babble that he didn’t want the alpha to hear.

“Stiles’,” Jackson answered immediately. 

Which, ok, was technically true, but Stiles had only come up with his brilliant plan because Scott was whining and moping at him. God. He shot Jackson a thanks-for-throwing-me-under-the-bus-asswipe glare. Jackson’s semi-apologetic eyebrow waggle did nothing to appease his rage, and Stiles promised swift vengeance with narrowed eyes.

“Enough,” Derek snapped, interrupting their illuminating facial conversation. And suddenly he was in _right there,_ tugging Stiles’ arm up and around his shoulders, and slinging his own arm around Stiles’ waist, his body a warm, steady pressure against Stiles’ side. “River. _Now._ ”

“Woah!” Stiles recoiled, surprised at the werewolf’s sudden proximity. Unfortunately the movement put all his weight on his bad leg. It would have buckled if Derek hadn’t held on, pulling him in tight.

“Idiot,” Derek muttered, the word a low rumble Stiles felt vibrating through his ribcage. “Do you want to fall on your ass?”

“No!” Stiles all but squeaked. “It’s just…uh. This is–” He did an abortive little flail that was meant to encompass the bizarreness of any situation where Derek Hale voluntarily touched him in a non-violent way, “Different. And weird. _So_ weird. Why can’t I just go to the hospital?” 

Derek growled, eyebrows lowering in impatience, and _there_ was the threat of violence Stiles had been expecting.

“Right,” he amended quickly. “Fine. Stripping in public. Bathing in the freezing river. Not getting murdered by grumpy werewolves. Got it. If I get a horrible infection and die, I’m blaming you. All of you. God. You do realize that I can’t heal like you guys, right?” 

“Well aware,” Derek ground out, and Stiles thought he caught a flash of something like pain in the alpha’s eyes. But that made no sense. It wasn’t like Derek was the one who was bleeding. 

Stiles heaved a resigned sigh and braced his weight on his good leg, shifting far enough away from Derek to pull his filthy Pringles t-shirt over his head. He winced a little as the movement made his ribs ache. The collar caught on his scraped chin as he yanked it off. In the wake of his supernatural mauling, Stiles had nearly forgotten about all the minor bumps and bruises he’d acquired during his frantic sprint for freedom. Tomorrow was going to suck. He’d be both muscle-sore _and_ dealing with open wounds. _Great._

Stiles dropped the wadded t-shirt on the ground, shivering slightly in the cool night air. 

“Scott?” he called, resigned to public humiliation. “A little help?”

“Yeah,” Scott nodded, stepping towards him. “Coming.”

“No,” Derek shook his head, steady gaze locked on Scott. 

“Dude, I can barely stand,” Stiles said in exasperation, even though Derek wasn’t looking at him. “Getting out of these pants is going to be a two person operation.” 

“Shoulder to lean on,” Scott said with a smile and a shrug.

“No,” Derek growled again, arm tightening around Stiles as he angled his body to block Scott. “I’ve got him.”

_What?_

“What?” Scott asked. Right on point. That’s why he was Stiles’ BFF. Same wavelengths. 

Then Scott’s eyes moved from Derek’s face down to his hand around Stiles waist, and back up. His eyebrows rose. “Oh,” He said, then “ _Oh._ ” His eyes jumped again, this time landing on Allison and flashing red for a moment before he swallowed.

No, seriously, _what?_

Stiles stared at his best friend. 

Had Scott actually just understood something that was still escaping Stiles? Sure, thanks to the blood loss, Stiles wasn’t exactly at the top of his game. His mind was moving sluggishly, thoughts fuzzy and kind of jumbled. Scott’s instincts _had_ gotten sharper since that whole absorbing-a-third-of-the-alpha-pack’s-aphaness thing happened, but still. Scott had just understood something that Stiles had missed. Something that didn’t have to do with Allison.

Hell might actually be in need of central heating this winter. 

Also? Werewolf body language was really, really frustrating without a translator. Stupidly frustrating, because if Stiles looked at this situation through his normal-people goggles, he’d almost be tempted to say that Derek was defending him. _From Scott_. Which was absolutely ridiculous. It was probably just some freaky alpha-to-alpha communication thing. Pack dynamics were weirder than ever, these days. Stiles didn’t even want to know. 

Two things seemed pretty obvious, though. Scott wasn’t coming any closer, and Derek’s grip felt pretty unbreakable. Clearly Scott was not going to be the one helping him.

Stiles sighed and eyed Derek dubiously. “You realize that you’ve basically just volunteered to help me out of my pants, right?” 

Derek rolled his eyes. He flexed his fingers into claws, and sliced straight through the fabric of Stiles’ jeans. 

“Rude!” Stiles yelped, as his pants fell in a forlorn pile of shredded denim at his feet. He should have been more impressed by the fact that Derek had somehow managed to shred _only denim_ , leaving both Stiles’ skin and boxer briefs intact except for the damage the cat-creatures had already done, but he was too busy wincing retroactively at how close those claws had come to his junk. 

“Seriously! A little warning? Those were my _favorite pants._ ”

Derek shrugged. “They were already ruined,” he pointed out, then dragged Stiles bodily towards the river.

Stiles squawked and dug in his heels – well heel, really, since one of his legs wasn’t exactly cooperating – but Derek was both stupidly strong and used to getting his way. He strode into the river, ignoring the fact that he was still fully clothed, tugging Stiles along in his wake. 

In seconds, they were waist-deep in the water, and Stiles hissed as the cold current flowed mercilessly over his exposed skin. 

Derek didn’t give him the chance to catch his balance, just adjusted his grip and dunked Stiles backwards into the river, completely submerging him.

Stiles sputtered and gasped as he broke the surface, blinking to clear his eyes. “Rude!” he choked out for the second time in thirty seconds. Had he seriously thought Derek might be trying to protect him a minute ago? Clearly the only thing he’d been protecting was his right as lead-alpha to kill Stiles himself.

Derek just grunted and set Stiles upright, braced against his chest so he wouldn’t lose his footing on the slick silt of the riverbed. Then he reached down, letting his hands roam over Stiles’ bare skin, rubbing away the mud and grime with smooth, steady strokes. 

“Hey,” Stiles protested weakly, trying to shove Derek’s hands away. He wanted to say _“I can do that myself,”_ but it had been hard enough to push that single word through his suddenly chattering teeth. He vaguely remembered his biology teacher saying something about blood loss causing hypothermia. Adding freezing cold water to the mix definitely wasn’t helping matters. 

“Hold still,” Derek ordered, voice a low rumble. He worked quickly, sluicing the grit from Stiles’ skin, hands surprisingly gentle, considering the damage Stiles knew they were capable of inflicting.

Stiles closed his eyes.

This wouldn’t have been weird if Scott had helped him. Scott was his best friend, his lacrosse teammate and adventure buddy. They’d seen each other naked dozens of times, in the locker room after practice, streaking through sprinklers in their backyards, and even skinny dipping in this very river. Sure, it would have been a little embarrassing, but at least he would have felt comfortable in the knowledge that Scott wasn’t judging him for his pale skin and scrawny chest. With Derek, on the other hand… Well, it was hard not to feel a bit inferior when standing next to all that muscle. 

And inferior was the _only_ thing he was feeling, Stiles told himself sternly. He swallowed hard, and tried to ignore the way the warm pads of Derek’s fingers dragged against his skin. 

All things considered, maybe it was a good thing the water was so cold. 

“ _Ow,_ ” Stiles protested, flinching as Derek’s fingers found the long gashes across his thigh, softly tracing them from hip to knee. They hurt less than they should have, the ache muffled by the cold or the adrenaline, Stiles wasn’t sure which. Still, they did hurt, and even Derek’s soft prods made him wince. Derek kept at it though, touches light but thorough, working diligently until he’d washed the mud away.

An ever-present voice in one corner of Stiles’ mind was urging him to ramble on about anything, anything at all to distract himself from Derek’s hands on his skin, but apparently the combination of traumatic injury, hypothermia and being manhandled by an alpha werewolf had managed to reduce his vocabulary to monosyllables. 

Interesting. That had never happened before.

Despite Stiles’ inarticulate whine of a protest, Derek dunked him completely one last time. Then, finally satisfied, he pulled Stiles’ arm back over his shoulder and helped him limp up onto the bank.

“You suck,” Stiles gritted out through violently chattering teeth. He leaned against Derek, who, in addition to being an utter ass, also radiated body heat like a furnace. The smug bastard.

“It was necessary,” Derek said in a stoic monotone, arm tightening briefly around Stiles’ waist. He ducked down, looking closely at Stiles thigh where the cleaned gashes now stood out in vivid contrast to the smooth, pale skin around them.

He sniffed twice, and shook his head, brow furrowing in thought. “The wound still smells wrong, and you’re still bleeding,” Derek said, watching the thin ribbons of red stream down Stiles’ calf as they mixed with the clinging drops of river water.

“Of course I’m still bleeding,” Stiles said. “The cuts are deep. What did you expect?”

“Those things were supernatural, Stiles,” Derek said, meeting his eyes. “And I don’t recognize these marks. I have no idea what to expect.”

Stiles opened his mouth to argue, but Derek’s words hit him like a physical blow. His stomach dropped, bumping every rib on the way down. 

“ _Shit,_ ” he swore as his heartbeat kicked up into panic mode.

Somehow, between the pain of his injury, the chaos of the werewolves’ arrival, and his unceremonious dunking in the freezing river, the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. 

Stiles had been _marked_ by the goddamned _supernatural._ Like Scott. Like Boyd. Like Erica and Isaac and oh…

Holy god –

Like _Jackson._

Stiles felt his breath coming in short, violent gasps. He’d been through a lot of shit in his seventeen years and he’d learned how to stay strong. He’d _had_ to stay strong. For his mom. For his dad. For Scott. For the pack. But somehow, the sudden, bright memory of scales and claws and slit yellow eyes, stole all the air from his lungs, and knocked his legs completely out from under him.

He would have collapsed back into the mud if it wasn’t for Derek’s solid, supporting arm locked around his waist. 

“Breathe,” Derek ordered, voice a low rasp next to Stiles’ ear. “Just breathe, Stiles. In and out.”

Stiles could barely hear the words over the pounding of blood in his head, but he clung to the solid warmth of Derek’s arm like a life raft, a tangible reminder of the real world.

And suddenly, there was another hand on Stiles’ back, one on his shoulder, one on the nape of his neck. It wasn’t like before, as he lay trapped in the mud, unable to fend off his attackers’ unwelcome touches. These hands felt different; comforting and almost familiar as they rubbed soothing circles against Stiles’ skin.

“Just breathe,” Derek said again, and Stiles did. He could hear people breathing around him, slow and steady, and after a long minute his own breaths slowed to match theirs. He swallowed hard, opened his eyes, and gazed blearily at the group surrounding him. 

It was the pack; the _whole_ pack, everyone crowded in close, all worried eyes and wrinkled brows and steady, comforting warmth. Stiles blinked in surprise. 

He’d seen the wolves do this before; comforting each other with touch and physical proximity. He wasn’t exactly sure what sparked the behavior, but it had to be some sort of instinct considering the way they all moved as one towards whichever pack member was in need. 

Stiles had first seen the phenomenon during the alpha pack’s siege, when Danny had completely freaked out after his transformation. 

As long as Stiles had known him, Danny had been steady as a rock, so it was a little terrifying when he woke up howling and thrashing and gnashing his teeth, tearing down an inner wall of the Hale house before any of the wolves could get to him. Then suddenly, _all_ of the wolves were on him. Not restraining him or trying to hold him back; they were just there, around him, moving as one, like some sort of synchronized snuggle team. 

Stiles remembered sharing a confused look with Lydia and Allison, because, seriously, werewolves were _weird._

Now, Stiles realized that even though it might look odd from the outside, it was actually kind of nice. There was definitely something comforting about being at the heart of his own massive dogpile. _Wolf_ pile. Whatever. It felt good.

He took one more deep breath, and let it out in a long, shaky exhale. “Thanks,” He said, “Sorry. I’m fine. I’ll be fine. I just…thanks.” He tried on a smile, and it held up like a real trooper.

“You really ok?” Scott asked, catching Stiles’ eye.

“Yeah,” Stiles said, forcing his voice to sound reassuring. “Yeah, I’m good. Just feeling a little faint. Blood loss, you know?” He tried to gesture down at his leg, but there were too many warm bodies packed too close to allow for any ease of movement. Judging by the crease between Scott’s brows, Stiles’ traitorous heartbeat must have hitched and given him away.

“Enough,” Derek snapped, glaring around the cluster of wolves who reluctantly moved back a few inches to give Stiles a bit of room. 

Stiles shivered as they stepped away, the absence of all that body-heat suddenly reminding him that he was standing in the forest in the middle of the night, injured and wet and mostly naked. God. His life.

“Scott,” Derek called, “put a bandage on this that will hold until we get back to Beacon Hills.”

Allison popped open the seat of her quad and pulled out an emergency blanket that Scott shredded neatly with his claws. “We need to move,” Derek continued, as Scott started wrapping the makeshift bandages carefully around Stiles’ injured thigh. “Those things were startled enough to run, but there were a lot of them, and for all we know, they’ve gone to get back up. I want everyone out of the woods before they have the chance to strike again.”

He leaned down and snatched Stiles’ discarded shirt and jeans out of the mud, tossing them to Scott, who, thanks to his wolf-speed and all his practice bandaging for the vet, had already fashioned the blanket strips into a functional dressing and tied them off. 

“I need you to lay a false trail.” Derek said as Scott caught the filthy clothes midair. “Those things may try to track him. Rub that against the ground, the bushes, the trees – anything that his scent will stick to. If you head southwest on foot until you hit the road, then ride Allison’s quad east for a mile or so, you might be able to convince them Stiles got in a car and drove off.”

“Maybe,” Scott sounded doubtful. “But the trail Stiles leaves is going to be way stronger, right?”

“I’ll walk him down the river,” Derek answered. “It’s not perfect, but it might mislead them for a bit. At least give us a little time to figure out what we’re dealing with.”

Scott nodded, “Alright,” he said. “Yeah, I can do that.”

“Take Allison and Isaac with you. I don’t want anyone in the forest alone right now.”

Scott nodded, but he hesitated a second before asking “You do realize there’s no way he’s walking five miles upriver on that leg, right?”

Stiles wanted protest being talked about like he wasn’t there, but it was taking almost all of his concentration to remain upright, even propped up against Derek as he was.

“I’ve got him,” Derek said firmly. 

“Ok,” Scott shrugged, sparing one last worried glance for Stiles. 

Allison climbed onto her quad, and she, Scott and Isaac took off, dragging Stiles’ clothes along the muddy, moss-covered ground.

“Danny,” Derek said, “Take Lydia and Jackson and scout the trail ahead. Let me know if you find any sign of those creatures. The last thing we need right now is a head-on confrontation.”

Danny nodded, eyes flashing momentarily red as he and Derek shared a glance, and then the three of them had fanned out, heading up river towards Beacon Hills. 

It still amazed Stiles a bit how easily Danny and Scott and all the betas followed Derek, now. Pack hierarchy had always been a headache, even when everything was supposed to be a clean, alpha-topped triangle back before the whole alpha-pack crisis. With Scott angsting for humanity and insisting he wasn’t pack, and Derek’s betas scampering off at the first signs of danger, that sad little pyramid had been on the constant verge of collapse. 

These days, Stiles visualized their pack less like a triangle and more like an amoeba. A very confused, mutant amoeba with three nuclei and a variety of violent pseudopods with snarky personalities, claws and fangs. 

So not actually like an amoeba at all, really. 

Whatever. 

It worked for them. Better than the ridged structure of the regular pack hierarchy, anyways. Derek was still the alpha-y-est alpha, of course. That was just how he rolled.

Boyd stepped up and handed Derek his jacket. Of course, Stiles thought. Couldn’t be an alpha without his leather – 

Stiles froze as Derek nodded his thanks, then draped the jacket over Stiles’ shoulders. 

“What?” Stiles asked, thrown.

“You’re cold,” Derek said by way of explanation. “I can feel you shaking.” It was true, of course. But this was Derek. Derek Hale. And Derek Hale’s _leather jacket_.

Stiles gaped. 

Derek stood there for a moment, clearly waiting for Stiles to do something. Then, apparently deciding it wasn’t going to happen, he sighed and reached forward, sliding Stiles arms into the sleeves like he was dressing a small child. 

Stiles stood there numbly and let him. Derek Hale was _dressing him._

The blue screen of death flashed somewhere behind Stiles’ eyes: _A problem has been detected, and Stiles has been shut down to avoid damage to his brain…_

When Derek leaned forward and scooped Stiles up into his arms, however, Stiles brain jolted back online. 

“Dude, what the hell?” He shoved half-heartedly at Derek’s chest. No, not half heartedly. Derek was clearly unhinged, and Stiles was definitely motivated about escaping. It was just hard to get any leverage with the way Derek was holding him, that was all. Really. It had nothing to do with the warmth of Derek’s skin seeping through the damp fabric of his thin black shirt, or the way he could actually feel Derek’s heart beating against his own palm. Nothing at all.

Stiles shook his head, trying to refocus. “I can walk,” he insisted.

“Not fast enough.” Derek countered, already striding forward into the river. Stiles glared. Derek just quirked an eyebrow. “I could throw you over my shoulder,” he offered seriously. 

_Better than being carried like princess,_ Stiles thought, and was about to say as much when his mind actually managed to work faster than his mouth for once. It presented Stiles with the terrifying image of himself, bent double over Derek’s shoulder, ass in the air mere inches from Derek’s face. From Derek’s _fangs._

“No,” he said, a bit too quickly. “This is fine.” It wasn’t like he actually wanted to get into that icy water again anyways. Even wrapped in Derek’s jacket, cradled against his furnace of a chest, Stiles could still feel the clinging chill from before. He crossed his arms tightly over his chest and watched Erica and Boyd fall into position flanking Derek. 

At least werewolves were fast. They’d be back at his house in no time, and then they’d be able to figure out what the hell those things had been. Maybe then he could blame all this insanity on them.


	3. The hazards of discount airfare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someday, Stiles was going to find the guy responsible for dealing out luck and punch him in the balls. Or, if popular culture was actually right and Lady Luck was in charge, he’d punch her in the boob. She’d deserve it for this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:  
> I started writing this story ages ago, and then life happened and I had to put it aside for a bit, so this is canon divergent after season 2. I’m picking and choosing things from Season 3 that will work with where the story’s headed, so there will be some details in here, but they’ll be interspersed with stuff I’ve made up on my own. In this story, things with the alpha pack went down differently, some characters are still around that left the show, etc. Sorry for any confusion that causes, and also if anyone is reading this that started reading it when I began posting, so sorry for the delay! I do know where this is going, and I will be more consistent about posting. Promise! :)

“So, really,” Stiles said, gesturing emphatically and nearly braining Derek with his elbow, “this was all Chris Argent’s fault. And maybe a little bit Scott’s fault, too, because he’s a lovesick goober.” Stiles waved his arm to illustrate the ridiculousness of Scott’s very existence, and felt Derek surreptitiously shift his grip, probably in an attempt to avoid a black eye. “And now, thanks to Scott’s epic romance, I’ve been attacked by the feline femme fatale and I’m probably going to sprout whiskers and claws on the next full moon. My life sucks.” 

“You’re not going to turn into a cat,” Derek said with a certainty Stiles resented the hell out of. He didn’t look nearly as pleased as he should have that Stiles had regained his usual powers of speech.

“How can you know that?” Stiles demanded, wincing as Derek shifted his grip again and Stiles’ leg yammered angrily in response. _Hello adrenaline crash,_ Stiles thought, squinting against the pain. His thigh was throbbing, his ribs hurt, and a nagging twinge had started up just behind his eyes; the kind that was going to develop into a serious headache if he didn’t get a handful of aspirin and a few hours of sleep soon. Basically, he felt like shit, and Derek’s casual dismissal of his concern definitely wasn’t helping his mood any. 

Stiles directed a narrowed gaze at Derek’s irritatingly attractive stubble. “I was kissed and clawed by werecats.” He gestured to his injured thigh in case Derek had somehow forgotten. “Isn’t that how you supernatural types spawn? An optional seduction, then maiming and bloodshed?”

“No,” Derek said immediately. 

When Stiles raised an eyebrow and shot a meaningful look at Erica, waist deep in the river and alertly scanning the tree line, Derek huffed out a breath and amended, “Not always. We have families, too, like normal people.” 

He sounded oddly defensive, and Stiles could feel the sudden tension in Derek’s body radiating through every point where they touched. Which was a lot of points, seeing as Derek was still carrying him like a Disney princess. And that was a train of thought Stiles really didn’t need to be riding at the moment. He was already a little too aware of the firm press of Derek’s chest against his ribs, the slide of his ridiculously cut abs against his hip and -

“Right,” Stiles said, frantically reeling his thoughts back in. “Normal were-families. Which must mean were-couples, and were-dating? And - ohmygod,” Stiles stopped, overwhelmed by a sudden unholy glee, “Are there…Are there online dating sites for werewolves?”

Derek made a strangled noise halfway between a growl and a snort.

Stiles cackled. “There are, aren’t there? I am so signing you up. I can see the ad now: Were-man seeks were-woman. Must enjoy long walks through creepy woods, unexpected nighttime visits, and the occasional dismemberment. Oh, stop growling, sourwolf. You know I’m hilarious.”

“You’re delirious,” Derek corrected through gritted teeth. “Maybe I should dunk you in the river again to see if it helps clear your head.” 

“I’ll pass, thanks,” Stiles said, eyeing the cold water with distaste. “Definitely no desire to go back in there. Hey, maybe aversion to water’s a side effect of becoming a cat?”

“You’re not going to turn into a cat,” Derek repeated, eyes constantly scanning the trees.

“How can you be so sure?” Stiles asked. It wasn’t like Stiles wanted to be a werecat. He hadn’t fought tooth and nail for his humanity over the past year and a half to be ok with losing it to a bunch of seductive felines. Also, if he actually went and turned into a cat, he was pretty sure he’d never hear the end of it from the rest of the pack. They’d tease him mercilessly. Or chase him up a tree. Either way, his life was probably going to suck a hell of a lot more than it already did. Derek’s offhanded dismissal of the idea felt a hell of a lot like an insult. He glared rebelliously at the side of Derek’s head. “I could totally turn into a ferocious wereleopard.” 

“Wereleopard?” Boyd snorted from somewhere behind Derek, still flanking them as they moved down the river. “More like were _kitten._ “

“I heard that,” Stiles called. 

“He meant you to,” Derek pointed out.

“Maybe he didn’t,” Stiles argued. “Maybe I’m developing amazing super hearing already.” 

“Doubtful,” Boyd said with a low chuckle, “Since you apparently didn’t hear what Erica just called you.”

“What?” Stiles glared at her reproachfully over Derek’s shoulder. “Erica! I thought we were bros.”

“We were bros before you went off on your crazy woodland adventure without telling me about it, you dolt.”

Stiles frowned. “How did you find me tonight, anyway? You weren’t supposed to be in the woods.”

Erica tilted her head and shot Stiles a strange little half smile. “Derek.”

“Derek?” Stiles asked, turning to regard the alpha’s unreadable profile.

Derek shrugged, lifting Stiles slightly with the movement. “I knew you were planning something. You’re not exactly subtle.”

Stiles frowned. “I am the _epitome_ of subtlety, thank you very much.”

Derek’s face had morphed into the sort of constipated frowny expression he always wore when he was actually having an emotion and didn’t want to show it. 

Stiles glared at him. “Are you laughing at me?” He asked, poking Derek’s annoyingly muscled chest with an accusing finger. “You are, aren’t you. That’s so unfair. I speak nothing but the truth. Sometimes I regret discovering your sense of humor.”

Derek opened his mouth, but he never got the chance to reply, because at that moment Jackson burst out of the forest, pelting towards them down the rock-strewn riverbank like a stampeding rhino.

“Birds!” he yelled, gesturing wildly at the sky.

Derek stopped midstride, muscles tense, and Stiles had just enough time to glance up before a massive black shape blotted out the sun. 

“Shit!” Stiles yelped as something clamped tightly around the ankle of his good leg and yanked him skyward. Before he had time to react, he was dangling upside down a good ten feet above Derek, swinging like a precariously balanced toy in the crane game at the local arcade. 

Derek was staring up at him, Stiles’ own shock mirrored in the alpha’s face for a moment before his eyes flashed red and his canines lengthened. 

From his disorienting vantage point, Stiles saw Derek’s muscles bunch, his claws digging into the riverbed as he prepared to launch himself into the sky. The distance between them had lengthened alarmingly fast, and even as Derek sprang towards him, Stiles knew he would fall short. 

“Lydia!” he screamed, knowing her crossbow was probably his only chance at escape.

He craned his neck, trying to figure out what had grabbed him, to see if there was any way he could fight back or wriggle free, then blanched when he caught sight of the long, dangerous looking talons wrapped firmly around his ankle. A pair of massive, jet-black wings beat gusts of wind into his face, and Stiles wondered wildly what kind of giant trained its pet crow to abduct people. Then another stroke of the thing’s massive wings swung him forward, and he expelled every curse word he knew in one long, heartfelt breath. 

Because _harpies._

A whole god damned _flock_ of them.

Of course. Why settle for one murderous group of half-humans when you could have two?

Someday, Stiles was going to find the guy responsible for dealing out luck and punch him in the balls. Or, if popular culture was actually right and Lady Luck was in charge, he’d punch her in the boob. She’d deserve it for this.

The bare-chested bird-woman gazed down at him with a face he would have called lovely if it hadn’t been bisected by a massive, razor-sharp beak. Stiles swallowed, which was a lot harder with gravity working against him, and yelled “Lydia!” again, as loud as he could.

He let his head fall back, regretting it when the swinging view of the ground below made his stomach lurch, but he could see Derek still racing along the increasingly rocky riverbank below him, and Lydia speeding through the tree-line on her quad, then slamming on the breaks and skidding to a stop before raising her crossbow, ready to shoot.

She didn’t, though. She just stood there for an agonizing heartbeat, and even across the distance, Stiles could feel her eyes on him. He knew why she was hesitating, knew she was calculating the odds in her head, the possibility she might miss her target and hit him, the chance that even if she hit the harpy Stiles might not survive the fall.

Lydia was good with the crossbow. Not as good as Allison, but she could beat anyone else in the pack nine times out of ten, and Stiles knew there wasn’t really a choice, here. A fall from thirty feet in the air didn’t exactly sound appealing, but it sounded a hell of a lot better than letting a harpy peck out his spleen. 

“Shoot it!” he yelled, as the harpy’s wings beat again, jerking him farther up into the air.

Lydia pulled the trigger. 

The crossbow bolt streaked through the air faster than Stiles’ eyes could track. He swung dangerously sideways as the harpy lurched, and blinked up to see the stiff, wooden shaft of the bolt blooming out of its side, showering Stiles in feathers and blood. The iron grip around his ankle loosened and let go.

Stiles fell.

He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t tear his eyes away from the ground as it rushed towards him, too fast. If he’d been over the river, he might have survived a fall from this height with only a few broken bones, but the last sideways jerk of the bird-woman had placed him directly above the stony riverbank. He managed to wrench himself around so at least he wouldn't hit the ground face first, but there was no water below him, no trees to break his fall. 

He knew he was going to die. 

The midair impact, a good fifteen feet above the muddy bank, caught Stiles completely off guard. He flailed, startled by the force of the collision and his sudden change in trajectory. There was also a disorientingly warm body plastered to his left side.

“What the _hell_ – ” he had time to gasp before he hit the surface of the river with an impressive splash. Water rushed into his mouth, filled his ears and blurred his vision. He hit the shallow riverbed feet first with a jarring thud, but didn't have time to process anything else before an arm wrapped around his waist, dragging him backwards through the water and out across the riverbank. He wheezed, palms skidding over the uneven ground, bare knees scraping over rough stone.

And suddenly he was curled under the sheltering arch of Derek’s body, gasping and sputtering as the harpies continued their assault. The alpha was braced over him, growling like a rabid dog, and Stiles couldn’t see anything, forced into the fetal position by Derek’s weight, face barely an inch above the muddy, rock-strewn ground. 

He could feel the growl reverberating through Derek’s chest, feel the smooth slide of muscle under skin as he tried to fended off beaks and talons, reaching awkwardly behind himself with his one free hand.

Even through Derek's defenses, Stiles felt the wind of dozens of wings buffeting him, winced as sharp claws dug into his exposed arm, raking gashes through Derek's leather jacket and into his own skin. Something warm and wet leaked sluggishly down Stiles’ cheek, and he had no idea if it was his blood or Derek’s. He could hear Lydia screaming and Erica cursing, and Derek’s arm tightened, squeezing the air out of Stiles’ lungs. He let it out in a hysterical laugh.

Stiles hadn’t exactly had time to count as he was swinging through the air, but he’d seen enough harpies in the sky to darken the sun, which meant the pack was easily outnumbered ten to one. The heavy, blunt thunks of beaks against flesh and the sickly wet snapping of bones and teeth sounded impossibly loud in Stiles' ears. 

“Let me up,” Stiles snarled, trying to shove Derek aside. He wasn’t doing anyone any good huddling here, and since Derek was sitting here, immobile, trying to protect him, he wasn’t doing anyone any good either. Stiles tried to squirm sideways, hissing as his various cuts and bruises protested. “Derek, let go.” Stiles wanted to help. He was injured, but that didn’t mean he was out of the fight. If he could get to Lydia’s Quad, to the stash of weapons stored under the seat –

Out of nowhere, the ache that had been throbbing behind his eyes sharpened into blinding pain. He screamed, curling in on himself even further, as an inexplicable pressure started building inside his chest, adding to the searing pain in his head as it pushed out against his ribs.

Stiles gasped, beating at Derek's side with his fist until the alpha seemed to realize he couldn't breathe, but even after the iron bar of Derek's arm loosened slightly, the strange, aching-hot pressure in Stiles' chest continued to grow, inflating like a balloon, making it impossible for him to inhale.

“Shit,” He wheezed, as the last of the air was squeezed out of his lungs. His body felt too small, too tight, jolts of something like electricity racing just under his skin. He was going to pass out; he could feel his thoughts slowing, see black sparks creeping in at the edges of his vision again, and knew he was going under.

 _No,_ he thought, desperately pushing back against the blackness. He couldn't pass out. Not now. Not in the middle of a fight. Not while the pack needed his help. He might not be a werewolf, might not have super strength or speed, but he'd never allowed himself to be a liability, either. 

_No,_ Stiles thought again, grinding his teeth as he fought to cling to consciousness. He could still hear the clashing of bodies around him, feel the spray of mud on his face and wind in his ears as the harpies shrieked and dived. His friends were fighting for him, bleeding for him, and Stiles refused to be useless.

With a silent curse, he threw all of his strength against the darkness blanketing his mind. It gave way grudgingly at first, retreating slowly, thick as cold honey, but Stiles kept pushing, ignoring the raging pulse in his head, the searing fire burning in his veins, until he felt the darkness crystallize, then crack, and finally shatter in a brilliant shower of light.

Stiles gasped in relief, air rushing back into his lungs, and with it the tight pressure in his chest changed. It was still there, pushing at his ribs, thrumming in time with his heart, but instead of strangling him, it coursed just under his skin, strange and shivery and almost alive, like lightning trapped in a crystal ball.

His mind snapped back to the fight as Derek, still braced over him and breathing hard, grunted and jerked sideways, battered by yet another set of angry talons and wings. 

Acting on instinct, Stiles balled his hands into fists and shoved them down into the soft ground. The fizzing energy under his skin rushed towards the earth, prickling his fingers and tingling in his palms. Stiles closed his eyes, mind blank of everything but the sharp-taloned shadows above and the salt-iron smell of blood. 

He shoved his arms forward, out from under Derek’s sheltering body, and opened his hands, palms up towards the sky. With a violent exhale, he released the pent-up energy, hurling it outwards. He felt the energy raging through him like water through a broken dam, a flood of raw power that swept his mind clean of any thoughts at all. 

The harpy above them exploded into a messy cloud of blood and feathers.

“Fuck,” Stiles said weakly, blinking as the torrent of power slowed and stopped. Bits of entrails splattered down around them. He let his arms relax, felt his muscles go watery and weak and realized, with a start, that the sounds of fighting had tapered off.

“What the hell?” Danny’s voice sounded distant and tinny in Stiles’ ears. He tried to shake his head, but Derek’s weight was still pinning him in place against the riverbank. He managed to maneuver around so he could peer out around Derek's arm.

Danny, Boyd, and Erica were gazing up at the sky, bloody and tired and surrounded by chunks of dead harpy, clearly confused by the sudden absence of feathery doom. Jackson was standing a little ways off, examining the scattered bits of mythical bird-women with something like horrified bemusement. 

“What happened?” he demanded, shifting his glare to the tree line like he was expecting another, bigger threat to come tearing out of the forest.

“They exploded,” Danny said, stating the obvious, because even with the evidence right in front of their eyes, it was almost impossible to believe. “All of them.”

“Why?” Erica said, dusting feathers off her shoulders and out of her hair. “Did one of them accidentally hit the self destruct button or something?”

Stiles blinked. They didn’t know. They hadn’t felt the power surging, hadn’t seen the crackling energy. They didn’t realize he was responsible. Stiles took a shaky breath, but before he could say anything, Jackson spoke again. 

“Where the hell did they come from in the first place?” he demanded, eyeing the remains with mistrust. 

There was a long, silent moment, in which no one answered the question, and everyone watched the shredded piles of bird-lady to make sure they didn’t get up and walk away. Stiles was a little proud. It had taken a few mysteriously missing corpses and several resurrected bad guys to do it, but the pack had finally learned not to trust monsters to stay dead. Yay.

Eventually, Derek rocked back onto his haunches, finally letting Stiles straighten out and sit up. He kept a hand on Stiles shoulder, though. Stiles wasn’t sure which of them he was trying to steady. 

Derek could probably use a little extra support. He looked like he’d had a run in with an angry blender. His hair was matted and bloody, the skin of his neck and back scored with deep cuts and gouges. His arms were sheathed in veritable gloves of blood and his face was clawed to hell, too.

Stiles winced. 

The injuries were already healing, and Stiles knew the blood would rinse clean off Derek’s unblemished skin as soon as the werewolf stepped back into the river, but he still felt a strange sort of guilt pool uneasily in his stomach at the thought of any blood being spilt to protect him. 

Then he looked around at the messy piles of feathers and entrails scattered around the clearing, and the guilty feeling quadrupled. Had he done that? Had he slaughtered an entire _flock_ of harpies? He could still feel the ghost of the electric current flowing just under his skin. He didn’t understand it, didn’t know what it meant, but something deep and instinctual told him that the energy he’d released had caused the bloody carnage all around.

Stiles swallowed hard. 

It wasn’t the killing that curdled his stomach. He’d killed before. There were, after all, some monsters in this world that were too dangerous to let live. But every time he'd killed, he’d understood what he was doing, had the chance to look his opponent in the eye, and had known, without a shadow of a doubt, that they would kill him, and others too, if given half a chance. 

This time, if he really had been the one who’d done it, he’d slaughtered a whole group of monsters indiscriminately. Sure, they'd attacked him and his pack, they'd had superior numbers, and all evidence indicated that they would have ripped him and his friends to pieces if the opportunity had presented itself, but somehow it still didn't feel like a fair fight.

Stiles hunched his shoulders, aware of the feeling of several pairs of eyes on him. He cast his own gaze out over the river, avoiding the blood splattered ground and the questions he knew he'd read in his friend's faces. He wished, fervently, that he had the answers.

“If this blood stains,” Lydia said finally, breaking the tense silence from somewhere behind him, “I will cut someone. These are my _favorite_ jeans.”

Erica gave a joyless little laugh and stooped down to poked at a large, slightly singed looking chunk of harpy. “Drumstick, anyone?” She asked, eyebrow raised.

“Oh my god,” Stiles groaned, eyes catching on something that looked suspiciously like a liver dangling off a tree branch. His stomach twisted.

Boyd shrugged. “Bet it tastes like chicken.”

“Blegh,” Stiles moaned, miming throwing up. “Please, can we not joke about eating the recently dead? My stomach has had enough abuse for one day, thank you very much.” He took a deep breath and rubbed at his face, unsurprised when his fingers came away wet with blood. Clearly he and the rest of the pack were going to be in for another lovely course in River Bathing 101. He wiped his hand on his damp boxers and sighed. “Why did they attack us, anyways,” he asked, trying to direct the conversation to a less nauseating topic. 

Lydia’s eyebrows furrowed. “They didn’t, really.”

“What?” Stiles asked, blinking at the circle of betas around them. He was pretty sure that had been an unprovoked attack, what with the way they'd done absolutely nothing and the birds had dive-bombed them completely out of the blue.

“They didn’t actually attack all of us,” Lydia clarified. 

Danny nodded. “They went straight for you and Derek.”

Stiles felt his brow furrowing and he looked closer at the Betas, noticing for the first time that, though they were bloody, their wounds were far shallower and far fewer than Derek's.

“They only attacked us when we tried to stop them from attacking you two,” Jackson agreed.

“Oh,” Stiles said, voice sounding weak in his own ears. 

“They actually didn't seem all that interested in Derek, either,” Erica said in a level tone. “They were mostly trying to get past him and at you.”

“And here I thought it was usually the cats that hunted the birds,” Stiles quipped, falling back on sarcasm as a last line of defense.

Derek shook his head, clearly not amused. “You’re not a cat,” he said for the seven millionth time. 

Lydia slanted a sharp-eyed look at him. “You said the cat-women marked you, right?” At Stiles nod, she continued. “Maybe it was so they could track you and find you. Maybe they were the ones who sent the harpies.”

“Well that’s just lovely,” Stiles said, throat suddenly much drier than it had been a minute ago. 

“Come on,” Derek said, reaching forward to pull Stiles' arm around his shoulders. “Let’s get you home before anything else tries to kill you.”


End file.
